The Coming of Spring

This time there’s no recovery.
What’s been torn away
cannot be recalled. Besides,
we aren’t remembering the same
things. I’m too easily distracted.
You’re up with the sun dreaming
down to your fingertips, itching
for dirt under your nails. Then,
at the end of the day, how easily
pockets are emptied, contents
spilling across the yard. Everything
lost with the old nails, paper,
glass under ground.